To Embrace God
by PikaCheeka
Summary: A young, lost, and devastated Isaak runs into Cain for the first time, and an indelible mark is made upon him as he is christened the Panzer Magier.


Summary: A young, lost, and devastated Isaak runs into Cain for the first time, and an indelible mark is made upon him as he is christened the Panzer Magier.

Notes: The poem Isaak quotes is Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The Armor of God that Cain references is mentioned in the Book of Ephesians, chapter six, and in the eighteenth Psalm, of the Bible. I thought it appropriate that Cain would reference it when giving him his new name. And before anyone asks…I don't know if Cain is naked here. It doesn't really matter. He probably is, as he tends to be a nudie.

Rated T for sacrilege, mainly, on a dozen levels. Cain POV.

To Embrace God

By PikaCheeka

What do we do when we find a pretty thing? Kill it and keep it lovely and stuffed in a case for all eternity. Pretty little thing. _Dead_ little thing.

I have never seen a mortal here, neither Terran nor Methuselah. Just the deer and the birds. Just the pretty little things. Rotting in the earth now. But he is strange. I do not know what he is. He is not a Terran, but he is not a Methuselah either. Nor is he a hybrid. And he is crying. This is my heath that he is crying in.

But I give in. I must know what he is, who he is. I must touch him, taste him. Kill him. That is, until I hear him, hear what he cries. _He speaks my tongue. _

I fell to Albion. Nine hundred years. Too weak to find my way home to Germanicus. I have not heard my tongue in nine hundred years. I hesitate a moment now, so close to him. I am behind him in the dark though, and he is too upset to see me. At least the animals see me. I want to stroke his black hair, touch his pale face, and find myself reaching towards him.

I have always been fascinated by tears.

"I can't turn back." He suddenly whispered. Did he know I was there? I could wrap my fingers around his neck and kill him so easily, now, before he turned.

"_Like one, that on a lonesome road, doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round walks on, and turns no more his head; because he knows, a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread_." In the language of Albion he now speaks, in a quiet singing voice. Everything about him is pretty.

There is something wrong with him.

He still will not turn, but after another long moment he says dully, staring off into the distance. "Are you…God?"

God. I am a God. That is what they told me. All those years ago.

No one has called me God since that day and I do not know how to react for a moment. I move forward and kneel beside him. He does not even shrink back, bold as a stupid child. "Were you calling for God?" the words taste strange. I have not spoken my language in centuries.

"Yes." He shakes as he speaks, and I can smell sickness on him. He is weak, ill, and he is not quite so pretty inside. There is something there. Something like the hurt only found in terrans and Methuselah. But I want even that part of him.

"Why?"

"Because I knew you would not come."

I start to ask how he means, but I stop. God would not ask. He would simply know. But who can fathom this man's mind? I can smell his madness. There is something bitter and wounded in his eyes, a burned-out flame, a dying thing. A potential. I want it. I want him, all of him. I want to touch those tears on his face. "A Methuselah without fangs."

He visibly flinches now and his eyes are wet again.

"You are beautiful." I touch his face finally. He lets me, staring at me with his eyes that are too hurt to look at for long. I stroke his cheek idly, noting how damp it feels. He has been crying a long time. He has been sad a long time. "Why do you cry?"

I feel his hands wrap around mine gently for a moment. "I did something…bad…. I hurt him. And he will not have me back. I cannot go back."

Bad. Mortals and their bad. Their good and evil. It is tiring. "You can do no bad." I want to take him into me. I want his madness, his beauty, his tears. I must possess him. But I cannot destroy him. I cannot merely snatch him, kill him, devour him, as I do all the other pretty things I find.

"Sometimes I feel as if my only…" he breaks off and I slowly pull him towards me. He does not resist, but he will not look at me any longer. "I dream. Everything. It is all I am?" There is a question in his voice. He has surprised himself. "I didn't mean to do it. I didn't want to hurt him."

I cannot follow his thoughts, but I know that does not matter. I suspect I will come to know him in time. I will know everything about him. He is raving. He is mad. He is sublime. And because he is mad, he will be easy to draw in. I am tired of being alone. He speaks my language. He calls me God. He clings to me now, shaking with sobs again. I can feel his body against mine and can see the look in his eyes that I must feed. "He hurt you. You are the one crying now, my Magus." It suits him. He who summons the God-who-is-not-God. "Anyone who makes you cry is the evil one. Because you are my child."

His eyes have changed and I see it now. Lust. Lust for me, lust for my body and my compliments, my hand on his head and my words in his ear telling him he is doing the right thing as he kills and destroys to fill that emptiness in his heart. But more than anything, an insatiable longing for his own destruction. I want to possess him. I need him. "Don't leave me." He whispers suddenly, watching me with intensity in those mad eyes.

"I will never leave you. But."

His eyes search mine. No one has ever looked me in the eye like this. Not even when I was born. No one. What is he? "What?" he finally asks.

"You are my child, my servant, and my lover until the end of time."

He does nothing. Waiting. I want those tears to stop forever. They mar his beauty. "I am dust. I have been mud at the bottom of the Nile." I can smell his surprise, his confusion, and his longing. It is in his nonsense. He wants to accept this. But he is not so stupid yet.

"And I was with you then."

"You left me. For years." There is an almost accusatory tone. He has always wanted to challenge God.

"I will wed you to me." I go on, ignoring him. I know it is really all he wants and I want to laugh when I feel him tremble and arch his body towards me, his challenge forgotten. He wants to not be alone. He wants to die. He is lonely, panting, whimpering, letting me run my hands up and down his thin body. "Through blood." I add, and he moans, but he does not pull away.

I have to unbutton his shirt to reveal his throat, so pale his skin is nearly transparent. But he is Methuselah, and though he is incomplete, something new runs through his veins. I must know. I must possess it. I cannot let this creature go. This creature that sees me. No one has ever seen me. And when I sink my fangs into his throat I know his is the only blood I will ever need again. I feel him convulse, his fingers curling against my back as he cries out weakly. I let my free hand trail down his stomach, clawing him through his shirt. I want his entire body to know me. I want to share his blood. I want him by my side for eternity.

I take too much. It is only when he collapses against me that I know I have nearly killed him. My delicate little mage. I stroke his face idly and he moans, cracking his eyes open for a moment. He shall need my protection. He shall wear the armor of God. He shall be my _Panzer Magier_. And I shall christen him so. I touch my finger to his mouth and he opens obediently, allowing me to run my finger over his half-formed fangs. He shudders when I cut myself on him, but he does not resist. He instead darts his tongue forward and I push my bloodied digit on it. I know he only tastes a drop. But it is enough to sustain him forever. I have never before shared my blood. "You are reborn in my blood. You have my blood in you. You shall never again come to harm. You are my little Panzer Magier." I whisper in his ear and his eyelids flutter. I press my hand gently over his eyes and he sighs.

"I always…" and he trails off. He cannot finish. Because he does not know what it was he meant to say. I understand him and I smile.

"Do you really believe me to be God?" It is beginning to rain.

"I don't believe in God," he whispers, weak and languid in my arms. He is no longer trembling. He is too tired to tremble.

"Believe in me."

He will not stop crying, though silently now as the rain mingles with his tears. I lean over and kiss his face, without thought. Please stop. You are mine, and you have no right to cry. I am your God now. You shall never cry, never want, again, my pretty little thing.

I would never let him go. It was not only his language or his eyes. It was his very blood. His blood was the first I'd tasted in nine hundred years.

And it was so familiar.


End file.
